I like the congregation of smoke and green leaves,
When you lean in close, and I can smell the end…
The inevitable, passionate union
Of old secrets and new branches.
We are sitting in the middle of a broken fence,
The slats sway from side to side,
Reminiscent of cartoons and Halloween.
White—tilted and tired and tiered,
Each part of the fence leans.
We are not not dancing,
But the immobile things around us dance—
Breathing,
Pulsing,
Blood-filled and haunted.
This house is swollen, and
We fill it with our ghosts.
The tidy walls are just a cover,
A justification of the suspicions that they have always harbored.
I like your voice.
I like the commands it contains.
I like that you call.
Even when I do not answer, I am listening…
Waiting for you to say something impossible
And precarious.
This is not an act of hope.
We are faithless and metaphoric.
We are virtual and untied.
We might be perfect
(Which is just another word for dead).
Luckily, there are no synonyms in our language for redemption.
There is no other way to resurrect,
So I fill my mouth with different things.
I eat your voice like ice cubes.
I tuck your syllables away behind my teeth,
I place your subjects under my tongue…
You are in communion with the gods of Lesser Things.
You always knew how to speak different languages.
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